


-5 GMT

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Implied Relationships, M/M, MLS, NYCFC, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Villa first notices it when Lampard says something to him and he fully understands it.  It’s nothing important, nothing especially meaningful, just a simple exchange of words.  But in that instant, everything comes into focus, and suddenly Villa feels like he can see them all clearly for the first time.  And instead of blindly stumbling ahead without a clue as to what he should say in response, he says something clever.  And Lampard smiles at him, a smirk really, and he raises an eyebrow before shaking his head and trotting off.  </p><p>And just like that, the world that had just come into view seems to explode like a starburst, a thousand colors out of nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	-5 GMT

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so a couple quick notes. 
> 
> This fic is about a month in the making and I hope it will inspire more people to ship Lampard and Villa because [good lord](https://33.media.tumblr.com/566177fc8ff0e6442201651916a307d7/tumblr_inline_nv8uo3nt6O1qdfh2r_500.gif).
> 
> Also there's four characters who are mentioned or alluded to but never actually make an appearance so I didn't tag them but I'll just list them here so everyone knows: John Terry, Sergio Agüero, Lionel Messi, & Jesús Navas. Cameo appearances, if you will.
> 
> Ok I think that's everything! Enjoy!

There’s a certain kind of love that’s only felt on the pitch, with the roar of the crowd as the soundtrack and the smell of freshly cut grass and perspiration invading the senses like a security blanket. It’s a false sort of love, a temporary one, but in that moment it feels so real. As bodies collide, arms envelop each other, as men collapse into sweating, gasping, crying heaps, there’s nothing fake about it. It’s emotion. It’s adrenaline. It’s so real it hurts. It’s the intoxicating feeling of victory over adversity, of triumph over conflict, of the worthwhile sacrifice. Without the struggle, it’s lacking, it’s almost empty somehow. It can never be easy, it has to be a fight. And it’s the fight that makes it worth it. It’s so intense, the best feeling in the world, nothing else can top it. The moment it hits is like a high, meant to be chased, meant to be savored.

He’s chased after that rush his entire life. The first time he sent a ball into the net he felt it. It was like a bolt of electricity shooting through him, illuminating his core. He leapt in the air, cried out, exploded like a rocket in the sky, and he felt it every time after that. And he felt it when his teammates scored too. Undeniable elation. Emotion. Love. It’s an unearthly feeling, something only Greek heroes could have felt, an utter thrill.

He hasn’t felt that rush in awhile though— not that the victories with New York have been hollow in anyway. Winning has always given him that rush, that feeling of living that’s kept him afloat all these years. It’s just not the same with these kids he can’t even really talk to and has no real connection with. Winning in Spain somehow felt more authentic. Kissing his teammates’ cheeks, rushing to them, laughing with them, speaking in his own language… all of it feels different. With these children there’s an added step. He hugs them and praises them in stilted, half-formed phrases and it sounds so jarring and wrong. They act like they understand him, but how can they? How can they really?

Sometimes, after a match, he’ll scroll through his phone and contemplate calling Silva. More often than not he doesn’t, though. They exist in different worlds now. They’re in very different places. When he texts him, Silva always responds, even with the time change. It makes him happy, but he doesn’t always text Silva back.

The months go on, they win sometimes. More often they lose. And that feeling of love is there, every so often. He feels it when he scores, or when one of the kids scores. He’s especially happy when they score. It makes him feel like he’s rubbed off on them or something. But in the end, late at night, he finds himself looking through his phone contacts and pining for what it used to be, how it used to feel.

That all changes when the summer comes. He knows, intellectually anyway, that Lampard will come once the English season ends, and there’s a slight ping of optimism that accompanies it. Someone who can understand, someone who can sympathize with being the big name, being the draw, being the one to praise or blame when they win or lose. He’d of course prefer another striker, but Lampard will do just nicely, if his legs are still any good after a full season in Europe.

And he knows Silva. He’s played with Silva. He’s Silva-approved. That thought brings some satisfaction to his heart, makes him soar, just a little.

“I’m looking forward to playing with you,” he says, when they are formally introduced and made to shake hands for the camera. His English is still terrible, but he’s trying.

Lampard smiles and says something friendly, no doubt, words tumbling out in a rapid jumbled accent that Villa has trouble following. He gets the gist, he thinks, so he smiles too.

Pirlo arrives then too, and he thinks that maybe it will turn around for them. He’s always admired Pirlo, always envied his vision, his passing, his utter grace. Again, another striker would’ve been his choice, but who in their right mind turns down the opportunity to play beside a true maestro?

They’re sure to win. Except they don’t. That winning feeling, the one he chased as a kid, the high he’s been living on his whole life… well, it’s never felt more out of reach. There’s no chemistry. Pirlo and Lampard are worn out after eleven months without rest. Villa gets it, he does, but his frustration is mounting.

“But what about you?” Silva asks him one night, when he’s finally given in and called. It’s nice to hear his voice, familiar like a quilt he wants to crawl beneath and hide.

“What about me?” He counters, bristling.

“What have you done to help?”

“I carry the team.” He sounds defiant, he can’t help it, because it’s true, he does. He’s out front, every match, working his ass off, captaining them, promoting them, cheering them on. It’s all on his shoulders, can’t Silva see that?

Silva says something then, and it takes Villa a moment to realize Silva is speaking in English. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you can speak English yet.”

He doesn’t call or text Silva for two or three days after that. When he finally does call him, they still haven’t gotten it together. Silva laughs at him and it all feels so familiar again. 

“You’ll figure it out, Guaje,” he says with his easy Canarian accent. It makes Villa long for Spain. But then, Silva isn’t in Spain either. He hasn’t been in Spain in awhile now. “Here, let’s hear you say something in English.”

Eventually, though, slowly, everything changes, and it isn’t just that Villa feels a tentative confidence with his language skills. It’s a physical shift in the team, in their dynamic and behaviors. One day it’s a calamity; the next they seem to move together with a strange precision. It isn’t yet reflected in the table, but in practices it feels almost like a light has been turned on.

Villa first notices it when Lampard says something to him and he fully understands it. It’s nothing important, nothing especially meaningful, just a simple exchange of words. But in that instant, everything came into focus, and suddenly Villa feels like he can see them all clearly for the first time. And instead of blindly stumbling ahead without a clue as to what he should say in response, he says something clever. And Lampard smiles at him, a smirk really, and he raises an eyebrow before shaking his head and trotting off. 

And just like that, the world that had just come into view seems to explode like a starburst, a thousand colors out of nothing at all.

Oh no. Oh shit.

“You had a good day, then.” Silva says that night, voice tinny and distant across the ocean. Villa misses him all the more. His insides seem to twist and he feels a little light-headed. It’s guilt, he realizes. He feels guilty.

“Yeah. I mean…” He trails off, unsure what to say that won’t give everything away.

“Frank’s a nice guy,” Silva continues, oblivious.

“Yeah. He really is.” Villa answers, except he realizes he’s not really sure if it’s true or not.

So he asks Pablo. “What do you think of Lampard?” He says, as they take a brief pause at practice.

Pablo shrugs, then gives a noncommittal laugh. “He’s incredible footballer. We’re fortunate to have him, don’t you think?”

Villa stares into the distance, very pointedly not in the Englishman’s direction as he takes a drink of water. “Yes.” He manages at last, turning back to his old friend. “But what about him as a person?”

“As a person?” Pablo looks confused. Villa says nothing. Pablo finally answers, glancing over at Lampard and Pirlo and the small collection of disciples they’ve accumulated. “Well, the kids seem to like him, so I suppose that must count for something.”

And it did, probably. Lampard had quickly established an easy rapport with the younger guys. A few months ago they came to Villa, seeking his leadership, his guidance, his approval. But now… well now there's more than one master of the house, and this master loved to talk.

Villa says nothing again, but it gets him thinking.

A few days later, in the locker room, he approaches Pirlo. Their conversation is strained, not due to any ill-will or unfriendliness, but. The language barrier rears its head again, and the two men stand there trying to assemble some sort of coherent dialogue in an amalgamated mess of Spanish, Italian, and English. Eventually they come to an understanding, and the smiles come, along with some laughter. They’re in the same boat, they share that bond that only a lack of fluency can bring. And once Pirlo is smiling, broad and easy, Villa asks him what he thinks of Lampard.

“I appreciate his presence on the pitch,” Pirlo says. It’s something along those lines, at least, Villa thinks, as Pirlo dives into a clinical assessment of Lampard’s qualities as a footballer, all of which a startlingly accurate. Villa finds himself nodding along, listening closely to the slurry, melodic way the Italian speaks, almost mesmerized by Pirlo’s subtle authority. It takes a moment for him to gather himself and press onward, unsure yet confident all at once.

“And as a person? As a human being?” He asks, eyes wide, unaware of the urgency in his expression. Pirlo catches on, though.

“Does he strike you as a good man?” Pirlo asks him instead, and Villa is floored, not expecting the tables would be turned on him. He blinks, then nods his head. “I think so, too. He is, I believe, a man of infinite patience. One must become patient, I suppose, given the circumstances he has endured. But he is not docile is he? No, I think not. I’ve seen him sink his teeth into things when he means to. He’s like a shark in that way. Hunting, waiting. Do you understand?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t. He only fully comprehends about half of it. Patient. Docile. But also like a shark? It doesn’t all make sense, but he has to sort it out. So he just nods again. 

“Do you know him well?” Pirlo asks casually, as if he senses the confusion.

“No.” 

“That is surprising. I’d have thought you two would be close. You work well together.” And Pirlo shrugs, and the conversation is left there. 

They do work well together, though. It isn’t easy to cultivate a chemistry. Oftentimes it simply doesn’t happen and there can be a myriad of reasons why. But for the three old men, something happens on the pitch, something clicks, and Villa finds himself wondering what it is. These guys are incredible, spectacular, feeding the ball to him, letting him shine in the best possible ways, and he’s so close to greatness again he can just about taste it. It’s hard to put a finger on what’s happened. He’s not any different, not really, but he feels something has changed. With Lampard at his side, he’s almost reminded of what it was like to be a young punk with young legs and an even younger Silva running beside him, passing him the ball, setting up a shot. 

“Stop feeling guilty,” Silva laughs at him a few nights later. It’s after practice. It’s late. Silva should be asleep, not listening to him bitching about life in New York.

“I don’t feel guilty,” Villa says emphatically, but he’s starting to consider that maybe he does.

“I’m not jealous.” The younger man sounds so innocent, so honest it just about makes Villa want to cry at the thought. “You’re allowed to have fun. You’re allowed to like playing with someone other than me..”

“You’re the best midfielder I’ve ever played with.”

“Keep saying that and you mind actually believe it.”

“David.” Villa is frowning, evident in his voice.

“I’m serious. You’re allowed to move on.” Silva says, leaving out the last little bit that Villa knows will remain unspoken between them. _I have. You know I have._ It hurts more than it should, cuts him deep, and his heart aches a little, dull, throbbing, constant. It’s the truth, he knows this, he’s accepted it. But there’s still a piece of him, a very loud, very demanding piece of him that wishes he was still the center of Silva’s universe. He was on top of the world then, he could have had it all. But he never did seize it, never did take Silva’s love when he could have had it. Not fully, anyway. He never liked it when it was easy. Love should be worth fighting for, just like every other beautiful thing. The best goals are the ones that are a struggle. Silva was never a struggle, he just was. Until he wasn’t anymore.

It’s a rough pill to swallow, remembering that he isn’t the sun in Silva’s sky anymore. It’s not even that he especially wants to be the light of that man’s life, it’s just that…

“I have,” he says. Eventually he’s going to mean it.

They go to LA that week and they lose. They lose on an epic scale. They’re utterly humiliated. Lampard is hurt— he can’t play but he’s in the stands watching them. Villa doesn’t think about Lampard during that match, except maybe once or twice when he imagines what it would be like to have him running down the pitch with him. Instead, he’s nose to nose with Gerrard and Keane with Pirlo and a bunch of lost puppies and no one to get them to snap out of their haze.

He decides to blame the California heat. They’re just not used to playing in that sort of climate. He is, though. He doesn’t have an excuse like the rest of them do.

After the match, Lampard approaches him in the locker room and nudges his shoulder. “Next time, yeah? We’ll give it a go then.”

Villa can’t help but smile. His pulse races. There’s those damned stars in his eyes again.

Next time.

He does some promotional spot and an interview for an American sports show before he’s supposed to fly back home. Back to New York, rather. It’s odd to call a place like that home. He decides to call Silva, forgetting that timezones exist.

“I can’t talk now,” Silva says, yawning into the receiver. “It’s three in the morning, Guaje.”

“I’m sorry, I just…” He doesn’t know what to say, so he apologizes again. 

Silva sighs. “Relax, David. It’ll be all right. You’re doing just fine.”

Villa desperately wants to believe it.

A week later, they’re back in New York and he and Mix decide to carpool to practice. It beats driving himself, because Americans are disturbing when they’re behind the wheel. And besides, Mix is entertaining, if nothing else. 

“You seem distracted,” Mix mentions on the way home. They’re stopping at some fast food drive-thru to get milkshakes, waiting in the long, twisting line of cars in the late summer heat. 

“I am not distracted,” Villa says, a little defensively at first, pausing as he watches Mix watching him. He feels nervous under the young man’s scrutiny. So he clears his throat, changing the subject as Mix inches the car forward in the line. “How do you like the club, Mix? Are you happy to play here?”

He laughs, shaking his head, smile bright and contagious. “Oh, come on, David. You don’t actually give a damn about whether or not I’m happy.”

Villa scowls at him, following his words with a cautious optimism that gets dashed once he figures out what Mix is saying to him. “Of course I care if you are happy. I am your captain.”

Mix smirks again. “On paper, sure. But let’s be real here, David.” He doesn’t understand. Mix recognizes as much and shrugs. “Frank’s the captain.”

Villa is aghast, almost horrified at that and it shows. “I do not know what you are saying.” He spits out the words, giving his tone more edge than the sentence itself. “I am the captain.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mix says simply, rolling down his window to hand the cashier his card. Their conversation dies after that.

It haunts him for a few days though. Frank is the captain. Frank is the leader. Frank is the one steering the team. When he lies down in bed, he thinks about it and it makes him unreasonably angry. It’s like he’s been usurped. Silva thinks he’s nice. Pablo thinks he’s amazing. Pirlo thinks he’s indispensable. And now, even Mix has been won over. It’s all so unfair. But the most unfair part of all is that Villa recognizes something within himself. It’s that same old conflict, that constant, familiar struggle, the need for everything to be difficult in order to be worth doing. It drives him, it’s what he needs to win, and it doesn’t exist. They’re too perfect, too happy.

So he creates a conflict, in his own head. Lampard’s done nothing to him, besides bring the rest of the team together, calm their nerves, and generally exist. Nothing, besides win over everyone he cares about. Nothing besides smiling and talking too quickly and accomplishing in a month what he’s failed to do in six.

He’s going to hate Frank Lampard, he decides. The only other alternative is to surrender completely.

“You sound so unhappy.” Villa doesn’t say anything to that, he just breathes into the phone and listens to Silva doing the same. The younger man continues, “Haven’t you been saying this for months? You need help and they need direction. I don’t understand the problem here.”

“We didn’t need another midfielder. We need a striker. We need someone who can score.” 

Silva laughs then. Villa can just picture him shaking his head, golden brown hair in his eyes. There’s that pang of guilt in his chest again. “You don’t think Lampard can score?”

“He hasn’t.” Villa stands firm on that one. “He’s been here months and what has he done for us? Absolutely nothing. But they love him anyway. They can’t function without him. And here I am still, playing every match. Scoring. Losing anyway. I don’t like losing, David.” 

Suddenly Silva isn’t laughing anymore. “Don’t be such a fool, Guaje. Don’t complicate everything. It’s unbecoming.” 

He feels stupid again, sheepish, helpless, like he’s somehow ruined things between them again. Not that there’s anything left to ruin, but still. When he hangs up that night, he resolves to do like Silva said. Stop being foolish. Stop making things complicated. 

He calls Lampard the next day. 

Lampard doesn’t answer.

Villa spends the rest of his day off feeling more bitter than he should. By the time they’re back in training, he’s positively seething. Lampard greets him with a grin as brilliant as a firecracker. Villa almost shivers. He doesn’t though. He scowls.

“Did you enjoy your day off then?” Lampard asks, lacing up his boots. All around them the kids are chattering. Villa vaguely wishes they would all just go away and leave him alone with his thoughts. But that’s selfish and stupid, and he makes the mistake of looking over at Lampard, gaze lingering just long enough that their eyes meet. The Englishman raises a brow at him.

“It was fine,” Villa answers, averting his gaze as he quickly jogs away in search of anyone, or anything that might distract him. He suddenly doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

Silva calls him that night. It's unusual because for most of the summer it was the other way around, and for whatever reason he lets himself feel smug about it. That superior feeling dissipates as soon as he catches the tired tone of Silva's voice. 

“What's going on with you and Frank?” He asks, not bothering to mask the concern creeping into his voice. 

“What are you talking about?” Villa counters, feeling trepidatious. 

“Why are you giving him a hard time?”

“I'm not. Who told you that?” 

“Jesús.” 

“What the hell does Jesús know about anything?” Villa exhales loudly, like a sigh of relief. It’s just Jesús. 

“They're friendly. They still keep in touch.” 

“I thought Jesús was too shy for stuff like that.” 

“He's not.” 

“Oh.” 

He hears the frown in Silva's voice. It deflates him significantly. "Whatever game you're playing, stop. Don't spoil things.” 

“I haven't,” Villa says. 

“You will if you don't knock it off, David.”

That’s enough to make him stop and think. It’s enough to make him close his eyes as he sinks back into his sofa cushions and listens to his best friend, his former lover, the person who knows him best of all lecture him on why he’s such an idiot, why he doesn’t need to view everyone as a rival, why that sort of intensity is unsustainable, unhealthy, not conducive to love.

“You were never my rival,” Villa corrects him. “You were my— ”

“I loved you,” Silva cuts him off, won’t let him finish. “That’s close enough, isn’t it? With you it is, anyways.”

Villa’s face falls a little, and for once he’s glad Silva isn’t here to see it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everything is a competition with you. You’re a drama queen. It’s like if you’re not angsty and suffering, you don’t know how to act. You can’t love someone unless you hate them a little bit too.”

“That’s not true. I loved you. And I never hated you, not even a little.”

Silva’s breathing hitches. “Don't.” 

He bites his lip. “Just answer me this, Silva. Is that why? Is that why we broke up? Because I didn’t hate you?”

“No,” Silva doesn’t hesitate. “You already know why we broke up, David.” 

The team flies to Texas that week. He tweaks his leg before halftime and gets subbed out. Lampard takes an elbow to the face and stays on for awhile. They lose. It’s hard to sound positive with the press people afterward. They’d so desperately needed that win. But he puts on his best captain’s face and hits all the talking points, like he’s supposed to. Afterward, the team boards the bus back to the hotel, and somehow in the midst of the shuffling and commotion, Lampard winds up next to him.

“How’s the leg?” He asks, as though it’s more important than the massive gash over his eye, patched up with a ridiculous amount of bandages. “Nothing too serious is it?”

Villa isn’t sure what too say. He’s fine, really, just a little strain. He’ll probably have to sit out the next match, but only as a precaution. Lampard’s blow to the head had to be the more concerning of the two injuries. So he gives a shrug, gestures with his hands a little before meeting Lampard’s eyes. Green. Frank Lampard has green eyes.

Oh shit.

“Ah.. it is, uh, nothing big. It is just…”

“I’m glad,” Lampard smiles. “We need you, you know. God knows I can’t seem to get the rhythm.”

“You are doing fine,” Villa says quickly. They haven’t broken eye contact yet. “And you willl do better. Goal machine, yes?”

Lampard laughs softly, finally looking away as he shakes his head. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You are tremendous,” Villa nods, impressed with his own ability to use such a large word correctly in a sentence. “You will be great.”

Lampard’s smile falls a little as he glances back at him and Villa can feel his heart pounding, pulse hammering in his throat. He swallows hard as their eyes meet again. At first they say nothing. There’s no need to say anything. It’s like a bolt has struck them and held them in place. It’s brief, just a moment that it lasts, but there’s something exchanged then that words can’t contain. If they were on the pitch, they’d be in each other’s arms. Or if they were alone. That sort of intimacy either requires an audience of thousands or an audience of none. There’s no room for anything in between.

Wait. No. They’re not green. They’re dark blue. Frank Lampard’s eyes are dark blue.

Oh fuck.

Villa’s about to say something, default to Spanish maybe, when they’re interrupted from across the aisle by Mix letting out a guffaw. “What the hell’s going on over there? Hello? Earth to Frank! Earth to David!”

Both men turn to look at him, expressions matching and unreadable.

“I asked if you guys wanted to grab a bite with us.”

Lampard says yes. Villa decides he’d better not. He spends the evening in his hotel room watching an English period drama and longing for Spain.

He ends up sitting out the next match. It’s just a precaution, but he hates feeling useless, watching the match from one of the private boxes at Yankee Stadium. Lampard is the captain. As the boys take the pitch, it’s like a switch goes off in his head. Maybe it just wasn’t clear from close proximity, but from this new distance, he can see something is different with the team. Mix was right all along. With or without the armband it becomes clear as day that Lampard is running the team. Pirlo dictates the pace and Lampard commands the men. And in a matter of minutes they’ve got control of everything. And it’s just a matter of time before it happens: a beautiful bicycle, the ball lands right at Lampard’s feet and suddenly it’s in the back of the net. The captain raises his arm, smiles, laughs, and is mobbed by the guys. Captain Lampard has taken the helm and New York City march ahead to victory at home.

He finds Lampard in the locker room afterward. “Congratulations, captain,” he says as he leans in the doorway. They’re alone. Villa isn’t sure how they’ve managed it.

Lampard looks up at him, smiling already. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Villa shrugs, trying so hard to look casual. “I wanted to see you win today.” He still has to fumble with his words, his accent is still so heavy. But he’s trying. He’s trying so hard. And Lampard, bless his heart, Lampard seems to get it. The Englishman grins at him, and Villa feels his heart racing again. “I want to go to buy something to eat. Will you come with me?”

“Here?” Lampard lets out a laugh, gives him a look of mild disbelief. “You can’t be serious, mate. The food here’s awful and it’s overpriced. You know what they’re charging for a chicken wing? It’s obscene.” 

“No. I know a place in the city, for dessert. It is very tasty.” Villa can’t mask the hopeful glint in his eyes, not that he cares to, really. “You should come with me.”

He pauses, like he has to think it over, and he’s about to answer when suddenly they aren’t alone anymore. Pirlo walks up behind Villa and places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Good to see you here,” he says warmly. His English has improved exponentially. Villa really ought to take note. “Did I hear that you two were going to get some dessert? Would you care if I joined you?”

Heart still pounding, Villa manages a friendly nod. Lampard does, too, the growing moment between them forced into a freeze frame for the moment, a glance between them holding the silence promise that they’ll resolve whatever it is another time.

An hour later, the three of them are in a frozen yogurt shop in the West Village. They wear sunglasses even though it’s night time and they sit in the back, essentially anonymous in a city of millions.

“It’s good to see you two getting on,” Pirlo says, digging into his dessert. Lampard and Villa exchange a look before quickly turning back to their own bowls. This exchange is not lost on the Italian and he makes note of it for later. “I didn’t realize you two had become so close.”

“We’re not,” Lampard says. Villa winces.

“I see,” Pirlo nods. “Luckily enough, that problem is easily solved.” 

It’s only a short walk to Washington Square Park from the yogurt shop, and once they’re done, the three of them head that way. It’s dark out but the park is still abuzz with musicians and skateboarders and people playing chess. There’s a group gathered around watching a magician beneath the arc which stands as sentry and monument. The three Europeans stroll past without affording it a second look. They’re engrossed in conversation, the three of them, with Pirlo leading them like a damned conductor. They talk about family, common friends, what movies and books and music they like. Villa learns that Lampard actually can speak some Spanish and he’s bowled over. 

“I never knew this,” he says in dismay. Between them, Pirlo laughs quietly.

“You never asked,” Lampard answers. “Besides, you spent the first few weeks avoiding me. I never had the chance to test out my skills.”

Pirlo chuckles, leading them down a treelined path. Villa is almost hopeful that Pirlo will intervene and say something to alleviate his embarrassment, but other than the careful laugh, the Italian says nothing. Traitor.

“I was not avoiding you,” Villa insists, a little wounded but unwilling to let it show. “I just… it’s complicated.”

“Uh-huh.” That’s Pirlo. Villa shoots him a look. Lampard doesn’t say anything.

They stroll down Broadway, toward Houston Street. NoHo is quiet, despite the lingering autumn heat and the relatively early hour and no one seems to notice the three superstars walking down the Manhattan sidewalks. It suits Villa just fine. He’s not in the mood to be recognized.

Pirlo leads the conversation again and perhaps there’s a moment where the evening can be recovered. As they pass the Adidas store they pause to peek into the windows and admire the displays. There’s an NYCFC display right near the front doors and the three of them laugh at the silly t-shirts with their faces on them. Behind them, people stream past, unaware of everything.

Soon after, Pirlo hails a cab. It’s late, he has to leave. He offers to share with the other two but they decline.

“I will ride the subway,” Villa says. Lampard cracks a smile and says he will too. As Pirlo’s taxi disappears, they approach the Canal Street station. It’s still a block or so away and they walk toward it slowly. It’s late enough at night that all the street vendors have closed up and aside from a few other random pedestrians, they’re practically alone.

Lampard turns to him suddenly, a streetlight catching his smile, making his teeth look sharp and dazzling. Predatory. Like a shark. Villa feels his breath catch in his throat. “You really weren’t avoiding me, then?”

Villa blinks. “No.”

Lampard’s grin widens and their arms brush briefly as they reach the top of the station stairs. They stop there, waiting at the top, as though they’ve reached the last threshold. Going down means there’s no going back.

Villa wants to say something, but without a sufficient vocabulary he’s left a little stranded. But he’s determined, spurred on by his own nerves and by the peculiar look in Lampard’s eyes just then. He’s seen that look before. He’s seen it in other people’s eyes, hell he’s seen it in his own, when he was drunk off lust and happened to catch a glimpse of his own reflection. He’s pretty certain he could kiss Frank Lampard right now and Frank Lampard would not only let him, but he’d probably kiss him back. The look in Frank’s eyes says he’s been wanting to do it all night. “Frank. I… want to… ”

A woman with a large purse pushes between them to get to the stairs. Lampard lets out the breath he’s been holding, smile faltering just a little, like he’s nervous or something. Villa is nervous. It’s been a long time since he’s wanted to do something like this.

He takes a step toward him, unaccustomed to having to look up when he wants to kiss someone. It feels different already and they haven’t even done anything yet. He’s considering it still when Frank closes the space between them, grabs him by the t-shirt, and kisses him boldly. It’s not a shy kiss, nothing chaste about it, but it’s slow, and it catches Villa off guard. He makes a low noise of surprise before he presses into it, and he can’t help it, he feels really and truly alive.

“Fuck…” he tries to mumble, except he’s in the midst of working his tongue into Frank’s mouth. For his part, Frank is pulling him in still, a fistful of fabric in one hand, the other keeping them both steady by holding tight to the handrail at the mouth of the stairwell. And thank god for that. Villa feels light headed, dizzy, and almost certain that if he can get Frank down the steps, he can get Frank to his house and to his bed. It’s a straight shot on the train. They can be home and fucking in thirty minutes, tops.

They’re interrupted by a piercing ringing sound and the faint buzz of a cell phone. Frank jumps about a foot into the air before retrieving his phone from his pocket. Glancing down at it, the expectant look in his face disappears. “Shit.”

“What is it?” Villa asks, concerned.

“I have to answer it. It’s John.” Frank looks back to him, all apologies as he gives Villa’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “See you tomorrow.”

Before Villa can say a word, the Englishman takes off in the opposite direction, phone to his ear as he speaks in rapid, chattering words and disappears into the night. He takes the train home alone that night, listening to sad songs on his phone, ones that remind him vaguely of Silva. Others, somehow, remind him of Frank.

He dreams about England that night. He dreams about rain and terrible weather and horrible food. He dreams about wet wind blowing off the water at some coastline that’s unfamiliar, rocky beneath grey skies. He’s walking along the water, stumbling a little because the shore is made up of stones and not sand. Silva is there, watching him from a distance. Frank is there, too. When he wakes up, he’s shivering and his blankets are on the floor and all he can think about is the way Frank's stubble felt when their lips met and of the scent of his cologne.

“Why did we break up?” He asks on the phone the next morning. He’s timed it so that it’s not obscenely inconvenient for either of them. However Silva doesn’t take well to his line of questioning and is predictably quiet on the subject as usual. “I wonder about it sometimes. I think about it a lot.”

“You’re such a bastard.”

“I know that,” Villa continues, “But I’ve always been a bit of a bastard, David.”

“You were a bastard to me.”

“I know. And you know I’m sorry. If I could take it all back, I would.” He pauses, softly adding, “You know that, don’t you?”

Silva is silent for a long while before he lets out a sigh. “Why would I even speak to you otherwise?”

“Because you still love m—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Silva admonishes, seizing full control of the conversation then, steering it back toward neutral, unloaded territory. When they’ve talked about football for awhile and are about to hang up, he says quickly, “Kun asked me to say hello, by the way.”

Villa can feel his heart sinking in his chest, but he somehow manages to echo Kun's greeting before hanging up the phone and wishing he could crawl back into bed.

“So,” Mix grins as he sidles up to Villa in the locker room. “I heard you and Lampsy went out on the town last night.”

Villa looks up from taping his ankle, incredulous. “Who told you that?”

Mix beams. “A little birdie told me.”

“Is it a pasta eating, wine drinking, gelato slurping birdie?” Villa frowns, mostly unaware that he’s slightly blushing. If Mix notices, he doesn’t let on.

“It might be.”

He feels almost embarrassed then, casting a glance across the room at Pirlo, engaged in some other conversation, paying him no mind. Instead he swallows and looks back to Mix. “It’s true. We had fun, I think.”

The kid smiles, bites his lip as he raises his eyebrows. “Good. It’s about time.” He laughs then as he walks away.

Villa wonders what that’s supposed to mean, but his thoughts are disrupted when Frank enters the room and he forgets how to breathe. It all hits him again, like getting kicked in the chest. They kissed. He and Frank kissed, on the stairs, at the subway station, shrouded by darkness and the bustle of millions unwilling to look them in the eye. And now their eyes meet, uninterrupted for a long moment, searching each other, questioning. 

“Thought I heard my name.” Frank says, taking a seat beside him, adjusting his boot.

“Yes,” Villa answers, feeling a little nauseous. “Mix was asking about last night.”

“Oh?” His deep blue eyes seem worried for a second before he smiles. Villa notices then that the cut on Frank’s eye is healing, though it’s left a pale little scar near his eyebrow. 

“Yes.”

“What did you say?” Frank’s voice is steady, calm as he looks back at his boots. He isn’t giving anything away and Villa admires him for it.

“I told him that I, that _we_ had fun.” 

“Well, we did.” He pauses, looking back at Villa. “Didn’t we?” 

Villa nods, slowly smiling. 

All throughout practice, he thinks about Frank, and not just because of their kiss either. Frank is incredible— a veritable goal machine, just like he’d joked. He’s known this, of course, always known it, but seeing him working hard, sweating, smiling through it all, even though he’s old enough to be some of these guys’ father really hits home. Frank is older than he is, he’s been worn down, beaten up, run through the ringer, and he still chases that high, still needs that fight to survive. It’s an internal struggle as much as an external one. Villa can see that he still pushes himself, still strives to be the best, won’t give up no matter what. He is entirely admirable. 

Villa realizes then, at that very moment, that he might be falling in love with Frank Lampard.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, turning away from where Frank is setting one of the boys up with a brilliant pass. This is the last thing he wants, and yet. 

And yet.

He’s laying on his back in his bed that night when he sends a message to Silva.

` i think i love him `

He waits. He waits for three long minutes before the reply comes in.

` Good. You need someone to love. `

He narrows his eyes and frowns as he types out his response.

` i loved you`

Silva, naturally, takes his time.

` You did. I loved you too. And I still do. I care about you. I want you to be happy, David.`

` silva :(`

` Frank's a good guy.`

` fuck`

` It’s ok.`

A steady panic grows in his chest. This isn't what he wants to hear. He wants Silva to tell him to stop, to tell him he's an asshole, that he's unworthy, that he's wrong. Villa fumbles with his phone, glares at it, like it's betrayed him. Instead he manages a paltry response.

` what am i supposed to do`

` Love him, David. It’s ok.`

` :(`

` It's ok. Good night, David.`

When he puts the phone down, all Villa wants to do is cry.

Two days later they host San Jose and Villa scores in the second half. It’s a beautiful goal, a header, and he feels more alive than he has in months. Sure, he’s scored over a dozen times with New York, but there’s something truly beautiful and special about this one. Maybe it’s the home crowd, the fever pitch frenzy of the fans screaming for them as they score three times and secure the win. There’s something utterly magical about Yankee Stadium, something he’s sure he’ll never be able to express in English or Spanish. The atmosphere itself might be the cause for the swelling in his chest that night. 

Or maybe it’s just from winning. He’s been chasing that feeling for forever, after all. He knows it, loves it, lives for it. But that’s not just it. After he comes down a bit from the high of his goal, he looks over and he sees Frank, all smiles and laughter and hugs. And when he’s subbed out, he tugs off the armband and puts it on Frank, and they share a look, short and sweet and heavy. It’s that moment, right then, that nearly sends him over the edge, spiraling in his own head. All the hypothetical tears he wanted to shed are gone, replaced by something else, something more substantial, something real and raw. It’s a thick tension between them and it’s almost scary.

“Good game, captain,” he says to Frank, smiling at him, almost biting his lip to keep himself from looking maniacal. They’re headed to the dressing room now. They’ll have to give some sound bites before they can leave.

Frank laughs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s sticking out in every direction, no matter what he does he’ll look disheveled until he showers again. “We did all right. Hung on for that win, didn’t we. It was close though. Could’ve used another goal from you, David.”

He perks up, sinking down into his seat as he removes his boots. “Or one from you, no? Goal machine?”

“You’ve got me there.” He doesn’t sound quite so jubilant. Villa looks over to him, watches him as he sits down too. Frank is reaching for his bag, pulling out his phone. He’s frowning.

“Is something wrong?” Villa asks.

Frank shakes his head. “Same as it ever was.”

Pirlo joins them for frozen yogurt again. They go to the same place. The cashier remembers them from before, but she doesn’t recognize them. She gives them each a loyalty card and they all enter a contest to win free frozen yogurt for a year.

“This probably violates our contracts somehow,” Frank chuckles as they claim the same corner spot as before. The other two say something in agreement, but they’re too busy eating to say much else. Once they are all satisfied, they lounge about digesting until it’s time to move on.

“What do you miss about home?” Pirlo asks. They’re back in Washington Square, sitting on a park bench in a poorly lit section of the park. From across the way, someone is playing Motown songs on an acoustic guitar. Villa is sitting between his companions, taking up more room on the bench than either of them.

“The food,” Villa answers immediately. Pirlo laughs. “It’s true,” he protests. “I like pizza and frozen yogurt, but compared to home? No, I like home better.”

“I agree,” Pirlo says, still laughing, somehow sounding completely refined. “Good food, good wine. And gelato. That’s what I miss.”

“You would.” Villa snorts.

“I miss other things too. I miss the weather.” The Italian pauses thoughtfully. “I miss friends. I miss that feeling of trust. I miss knowing my team as well as I know myself. I miss that.”

Villa and Frank are both very quiet. Villa realizes then that Frank hasn’t been laughing with them. He nudges him in the side. “What do you miss?”

Frank doesn’t quite look at him. In the shadows, he seems like he’s a million miles away. And maybe he is, lost in thought, across the ocean. When he finally comes back, he looks apologetic, forcing himself to look at Villa and smile.

“I miss John.”

It’s like being punched in the chest, the way the wind gets sucked out of his lungs. Villa blinks once, twice, turning away from Frank then to look at Pirlo, who is sitting there, smiling sadly. 

Everyone knows about Frank and John Terry. Or at least, everyone suspects. It’s one of those whispered about and accepted truths that no one really questions because it’s not like they were really even hiding it. Every team has something like them, Villa supposes. He supposes, too, that once upon a time there were whispers about himself and Silva, rumors that no one cared to bring up because there was nothing to deny. There was only the truth. But people whispered. People didn’t talk, not openly anyway. And now, here he is, face to face with… well, it’s not a confession or a confirmation. It’s sentiment. It’s longing. And he can’t say he doesn’t understand it, because he does. But it still stings. Here he is, trying to sort out what it means to feel again, to think he might be able to love again. And he has the blessing of his best friend, of his former love, that it’s all right to forge ahead and feel something new. And simultaneously Frank is wading through that same sea of betrayal, love, hurt, want, need, and every other terrible, beautiful emotion.

Still, he can’t quite look at him. He can only watch Pirlo.

“It is good to miss him,” Pirlo says, shifting back against the bench, nodding slowly, like a sage or something. “You were together a long time.”

Frank hums and nods too, fidgeting a little. “A long time, yeah.” He makes a sound, like a laugh, only sadder. “You know, I never figured I’d leave Chelsea. Thought that’d be it for me. There wasn’t any other plan. Everyone else’d come and go and we’d still be there, the old guard. But, you know, people get old.”

Villa finds himself mumbling in agreement in spite of himself. He’s not that old. He doesn’t think of himself as old. But he knows himself, knows that he’s not what he used to be, knows he’s made the right choice in leaving Europe. But two years ago, would he have pictured himself on a park bench in Manhattan with Andrea Pirlo and Frank Lampard at his side? No chance in hell. He’d be back in Spain, in Madrid, or any place that would have him. Maybe he’d have gone to England. Maybe Silva would put in a good word for him and he’d go to Manchester. But America? No way. Not him.

“Our bodies get old,” Pirlo corrects. “If only knees and ankles improved over time, the way minds do.” 

That gets a real laugh from Frank then. Villa likes the sound. He finally turns to face him, and sees that Frank is looking right at him. The Englishman raises an eyebrow at him and Villa can’t help but raise an eyebrow back.

“I’m happy here though,” Frank says, and Villa could almost swear his eyes are green again. It might just be the lack of light. “I’m glad I came. It’s time for something new. You can’t stagnate your whole life, can you? You can’t just do whatever’s second nature. That’s not healthy. Sometimes you have to make a change. Test yourself, push your limits. If you stay in the same spot, you’ve no one to blame but yourself when the play passes you by.”

Villa wonders if that’s directed at him. Luckily, Pirlo is already engaged, so he doesn’t have to speak. “Ah, a good metaphor. I like it. But, on the other hand, humans are naturally nostalgic creatures. We seek pleasure, cherish whatever feels good, long for the good that is now gone. It is only natural to miss what we once had. A past glory is so sweet in our memories.”

“But,” Villa hears himself speaking before he realizes what he’s saying, “Memories are better sometimes.” Both men tilt their heads to look at him and he looks between them quickly before continuing. “A good situation can turn, every happy moment has to end. The children grow up. You get old, you lose your place. You fall out of love. You get hurt. You cannot get stuck in a moment just because it felt good, because good things are not… permanent. And besides, there are other good things to come, and if you are stuck in a memory, you won’t ever find those things.”

Pirlo and Frank say nothing a moment, leaving Villa to wonder if his accent made it all unintelligible. He waits and waits, until Frank slings an arm around his shoulder and gives him a toothy grin. “You know, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in English, all in one go. Well done, David. That sounded beautiful.”

Villa scowls at him, though inside he’s soaring. Pirlo lets out a low laugh too. Across the park, the strains of Marvin Gaye fill the air, and as they go their separate ways for the night, Frank taps him on the shoulder and says quietly, “Next time you call me, I promise I’ll answer.”

Their eyes meet again, and it’s like that feeling of electricity is sparking between them, pulsing and alive. “I’m going to call you later. When I get home.”

“Okay,” Frank nods, then adds casually. “I’ll be waiting.” 

A few paces back, Andrea has hailed a cab for himself and Frank to share. Villa’s taking the subway again. Hoodie up, he bids good night to them and watches as their taxi fades into the night and when he gets home, he lies in bed and stares at his phone. Frank’s number is programmed in there, has been for months, but rather than pressing dial, he considers calling Silva first. It’s late in England though (or early, whatever) and interrupting Silva’s sleep to bitch about his love life is probably getting really fucking old.

He decides to text Frank. He’s too nervous to call.

` hello are you awake?`

The wait is an agony. Luckily, it doesn’t last for long.

` Yes. Just got in.`

Villa contemplates his response, unsure what to say or how to communicate his thoughts successfully via text. Maybe writing was a bad idea. Frank saves him again though. Villa nearly has a heart attack when he realizes his phone is ringing.

“Ho-hello?” 

“It’s not too late to call is it?” Frank asks.

Villa shakes his head at first, then remembers to speak. “No. No, it’s fine. It’s good. Uh…”

“I just had a question for you, David.” 

“Okay,” he says, sitting up against his pillows, vaguely nervous again.

“Are you going to take your own advice?” Frank sounds determined, not unhappy per se, but there’s the distinct sense that his words are loaded, and Villa isn’t sure what to say.

“I… don’t. What advice?”

“You’re stuck in a memory. Stuck in the past. Don’t try and deny it. You’d be blind not to see it.”

He can feel his cheeks getting hot and he’s suddenly unnerved and embarrassed. He’s not the type to just let himself be read. It’s uncomfortable. It pisses him off. “I am not stuck in the past.” 

Frank sighs. Villa can almost hear him rolling his eyes and it makes him angrier. “I get it, you know,” he says, and Villa snorts at that. “I loved someone else. I loved a different time, a different place. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, David.”

“Who says I am ashamed?” He hears himself speaking, only then realizing how defensive he sounds. “I’m not.”

“Maybe.” 

“I’m not. That isn’t it.”

“So what is it? It can’t be comfortable, skirting around like this all the time. I’m certainly not up for it.” Frank’s voice is heavy, almost disappointed, and Villa feels like his heart is on the verge of shattering. He isn’t sure what to do or say, hasn’t got the answers Frank wants from him. Why is he the way that he is? Why’s he so stubborn? Why’s he so petrified of something that might be so good?

He swallows, bile creeping up into his throat. He closes his eyes, thinks about the answer, knows.

“I fucked up.”

Frank laughs. “Haven’t we all?”

“I did bad things. It’s not funny.”

“No, it isn’t. But if that’s all you’re scared of, is— ”

“Don’t. Please. You say you know, Frank, but you do not know.” Villa speaks softly, firmly. “There was a moment when I had everything. I was the best striker in the world on the best team in the world and I had someone who loved me and I was happy. I had everything I could ever want. And I don’t have any of that now. I have none of it. I’m not scared. I’m really not. I am…”

He can’t finish the sentence, because it’s partly a lie. He is scared. He’s terrified. What’s more frightening than having it all and losing it? All it took was one little mistake, then like a domino everything fell down all around him. He had Silva. One minor (major) fuck up and a lot of hurt feelings later and that was done and dusted. Then came the injuries, the disappointment, the anxiety compounding, everything going wrong. He’s had a nice streak in America, and while he’s sure he’s smart enough not to completely fuck up his personal life by engaging in stupid and ill-advised trysts with any Argentines anytime soon, there’s always going to be the thought in the back of his mind that he’s going to fuck it up, that this new joy will be torpedoed, that there’s something inherent in him which makes him an utter failure when it comes to being a functional adult.

“You’re miserable, is what you are.” Both of them are silent a moment before Frank continues. “You know he loves you still. You must know that. I know that and I don’t even know him all that well. He’s a good kid. And he loves you still, whatever the hell you did to him. But you know what’s more, David? He’s happy now. He’s not crying over you. He’s not crying over how good things used to be. He’s not bitching about how hard he works or how much better he is than everyone else they’ve got, and to be truthful he very well could. He’s found something to be glad about. Don’t you want to be glad about something again?”

And yes, he does want that. Deep down, he’d like to give in and feel good about himself, feel like he’s on top of the world again. It’d be nice to be wanted, it’d be nice to be loved. Silva loves him, Silva has always loved him, but he’s smart enough to know that that ship has sailed— at least for now, and no matter how badly he’d like to fall back into whatever it is that they were before, it just can’t happen. Their paths have diverged. They’re just not the same. That acknowledgement won’t stop the want, the hurt, the wondering, though. There’s always going to be part of his soul which longs for the past, when it was easy to fall into him and soak up his love. It felt good, and it was as simple as breathing. Part of him will always miss that.

“But what about you?” Villa asks then, a slow realization sweeping over him.

“What about me?”

“You can’t live in the past either, Frank.” He listens to the full bodied silence on the other end of the line a moment before continuing. “You said so yourself. You miss John.”

Frank makes a snorting sound, more of a choking sound, really. “Of course I miss him. I’m not heartless.”

“So what is going on with you?”

“With me, or with me and— ”

“With you two, Frank.”

He exhales. It’s short, tired. “I love him. He loves me. At least I’m assuming he still does.”

Villa stifles a shiver. For reasons he doesn’t dare entertain, he’s suddenly scowling. “So why did you kiss me? If you love someone else, why do that?”

“You’re an awfully attractive fellow, David.” 

“Shut up. I want to know why.”

“That’s partly why.” Villa says nothing, waits for Frank to continue. “And because I thought you needed it. And because I needed it. I wanted to kiss you, I wanted to very badly.”

“But what about John?” There’s an edge to his voice, almost a plea.

Frank gives a brusk laugh. “I’m not with him now, David. I can’t be with him now.” 

“I do not understand.” Villa says, eyes fixed on the cream colored ceiling above him, staring at it like somehow the world will come into focus once he turns his eyes away.

The Englishman clears his throat, voice low and sure, like he’s imparting some earth-shattering secret right into Villa’s ear. “There’s this perception about love that I’ve never truly understood. This notion that you should move heaven and earth, change everything just so that you can be with the one you love. This concept that everything has to be set aside and altered, just to make your lover happy. That there’s something noble in suffering for love. Why would anyone want to suffer for love? If you’re suffering, you’re probably involved in some unhealthy business. You’re meant to be happy. You’re not supposed to change the world to fit them. They’re supposed to change you.”

Villa tries to counter that, but he has nothing. Frank takes that as a sign to continue.

“You know something else? You can love someone and know you can’t be with them always. Maybe you meet them at the wrong time or in the wrong place. Maybe there’s other obligations, work, family, whatever. Maybe there’s a distance, or whatever it is. You can fall in love and know, down in your soul, that it can’t be now or that it won’t be forever. And that’s how it is with John and me. I love him, I’ve always loved him, but right now I can’t be with him. I want to be with him, but that’s not what either of us needs right now.” Frank pauses, like he’s catching his breath. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy. That doesn’t mean I have to be lonely. That doesn’t mean I have to shut everyone else out. I can’t be with the man I love, David, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to wallow around like a pathetic asshole, treating people like crap, and pining for what used to be. There’s loads to be happy about here, and if I happen to fall in love again, I rather think John would be pleased that I was happy. He loves me. He doesn’t want me to be miserable.”

He winces, feeling the sting of Frank’s words. It’s a dig, he gets it. And as it sinks in, everything else really does seem to fall into place. _Silva said he wants him to be happy…_

Finally, David speaks. “Maybe it’s that way for you but it is different for me. I made him miserable. I hurt him.”

“Sometimes we do that. We don’t mean to, but we do it anyways.” Frank’s voice is calm, almost comforting. “That doesn’t negate it, but you’re hardly the only person on the planet who’s hurt someone you care about.”

“That does not mean it is all right.”

“Mm, no, you’re right. But you can’t undo it. Do you think he’s harboring bitterness now? I don’t, and I spent quite a bit of time with him, you know. So quit beating yourself up, David. You’ll feel better if you try and have some fun again, I swear it.” 

When they finally say good night, Villa considers it all, takes it all in, and he decides that maybe Frank has a point. That’s the nature of love, isn’t it? No matter what, you’ll always end up hurt. There’s no way to avoid it, except to be shut off completely, and that prospect seems, to Villa, to be an unhappy one. He could choose to be miserable and let his past hold him prisoner or he could opt for something different, something new. It’s frightening, it’s uncomfortable, but what is the other alternative? Staying in the past, longing for what used to be, what could have been isn’t who he is and it isn’t what he needs. It’s easier, in some ways, to stay trapped in all those yesterdays, but if he stays in yesterday he can’t exactly welcome tomorrow. He’s not the man he was five years ago, not physically, not mentally. Why should he try to be that man emotionally as well? 

They go to Vancouver the next week and they win. Frank scores early. Villa doesn’t score until a penalty in the 95th. The feeling is spectacular. The feeling is elation. It’s electricity and magic and more, and when he feels the crush of bodies against him, Villa feels like his heart might burst, he’s so alive. He’s on fire, and when he locks eyes with Frank, he can see that he is on fire too.

He finally kisses Frank again when they’re alone in the dressing room, after. It’s quick, sweet, more of a collision than an actual kiss, but it’s real and is happens, and when they hear someone turning the doorknob and they force themselves apart there’s something shared between them. A promise, maybe. Something more. It might not be tomorrow they’re waiting for, and it might not be the day after that, but. 

But.

He doesn’t text Silva that night. He thinks about it, when he’s back at the hotel. He even does the math quickly, to figure out the time change, but he doesn’t text him. 

He texts Frank instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Before I go, I'll just leave [this](https://38.media.tumblr.com/1fa0e426f0a00d3b8be7ccf7039a12e3/tumblr_nvsnv3RW3N1qesncyo1_400.gif) here and hope it inspires others.
> 
> Many thanks to [pimpam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/) & [Anemoi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/) for the ~~countless hours~~ month of handholding and encouragement. I would not have done this without your enabling! I expect one or both of you to help me in keeping this ship alive, dammit.


End file.
